#so here's a lil drabble

[yeyinde]

Been on something lately with Price + someone more reserved/avoidant when it comes to sex.

Someone who doesn't have any real, tangible desire for intimacy. Romance. Outside of a few summers spent rutting against their pillow, chasing the spiralling ends of a hazy daydream with their fingers stuffed inside their panties, chanting be normal, this is normal, you want this in their head as they think of vague shapes, shadowed anatomy; a featureless silhouette rutting between their thighs, they just don't have that drive to pursue something like this.

And it's over drinks when it comes out (too many, of course; but Price has this way of needling under your skin, patronising you with just a shallow lift of his brow whenever you order water: a sly, subtle challenge in blue, one you feel obligated to meet—). Tipsy, loose lipped, you confess that you just don't really get the appeal. It's fine, you whine, fingers tapping out an off-rhythm beat on the worn wood. When it's just fantasy, but the idea of it, of sex and romance and everything else that comes after is a little too much.

A shame, he says, but he listens. Takes in your words with a gruff counter of his own, volleying back his own desires until they swallow yours whole.

And when he finds out you never really learned how to touch yourself—something he finds truly sad, detestable, really—he takes it upon himself to teach you the wonders of it. Of sex.

(with him. Only him, of course. Because you not wanting to fuck anyone else is perfectly fine. Great, even. But not wanting to fuck him? Well. He'll fix that character flaw with his own hand.)

He takes you home. Drunk little thing. Can't even handle your liquour, mm? He's really gotta do everything for you, doesn't he? But you go willingly, stumbling after him like a little puppy until he pulls you down on his lap, back flush against his broad chest, and slips his hand down your pants. Shush, don't worry, doll. Just relax. He'll show you what you're missing out on.

Bullies desire, want, into you with the rough slide of his hand, cooing mockingly in your ear when your body reacts to his touch. See? told you you'd get nice and wet for me, mm? Now, let's make this pretty pussy cum, love. Shush, don't fight it. Just give in. That's a good girl—

He sees you as something he can mould. Break. Tame.

A pretty project to force into the role he wants with every fibre of his being: a wife. In the truest sense of the word too because as much as he wants an adorable little mantelpiece to put behind stained glass, worship when it's convenient for him to do so, he wants someone to mould their existence around him. Soft edges to his harder ones. Kisses on his forehead before he leaves for work. Dinner on the table when he gets home. Knees locked tight to your ears, waiting for his cock every night.

And you're the perfect fit for the role, aren't you? Sweet girl. Just needed a firmer hand, didn't you? Someone to tell you what to do, what you need.

There's nothing wrong with you, he says, slipping his thick fingers through your swollen, wet folds, pads tight against your sopping, pulsing hole. It's more cum than slick that leaks out of you now, and he hums around an exhale when he pushes it back in, feeling the way your body responds. Fluttering, flexing, trying to pull him in deeper. Reacting to his touch perfectly.

Like you were made for him—

"Jus' needed me to come along and give you what you needed, mm? Don't worry, I'll take care of you from now on."

[angelpuns]

Lil Hater Au Prequel Blurb:

Leo stormed through the lair, trying his hardest not to look incredibly worried. He rushed past the living room, a sound of general confusion following him. He didn't bother looking back, he thinks by how deep the voice was it must have been Raph. 

He didn't have time to stop and he didn't have time to explain. He hurried to his room, huffing at the effort it took to slide his doors open. He needed to make a mental note to ask Donnie to oil it. Or he could himself. Whatever, he probably wouldn't remember regardless. 

Leo leaned his crutches against the wall and hurried to pull his gear on. Wraps, pants, belt, knee brace. 

He struggled with the second one, but ultimately decided to wear it. He planned to be fighting, whether it was his friend or someone else, and he'd need the support.

Leo fumbled with the cool metal of his battle shell, cursing under his breath at all the time he was wasting. He needed to hurry! He wasn't gonna make it if he didn't hurry! He quickly pressed the button to adjust the pressure and did a little stretch to test it. Perfect as always. 

One sword was slotted into the holster on His back, the other held tight as he hurriedly reached for his crutches. 

He spotted Raph poking his head in the door just as he opened a portal, shooting his older brother a (hopefully) reassuring smile before stepping inside. 

He winced at the high pitched ring of electricity that always accompanied it, his cochlear quickly readjusting as he was transported to the back room of Run of the Mill. 

It was quiet back here, the voices of patrons far enough away that even he couldn't hear it. And just as he thought, Yuichi was standing with his hand on the back door’s handle. 

He had quickly turner at Leo’s arrival, a knowing scowl already on his face. 

“ Leo, I told you not to bother,” He huffed, turning to face him fully, “ nothing you say is gonna stop me.” 

Leo gave him a once-over. Yuichi was in his old Nexus gear, though it didn't seem to fit him well anymore. In personality or in size. 

“ What you're doing is idiotic. What if you take another hit to the head? Or you have a seizure?” Leo started, slotting his sword into its holster, “ you think those guys in the arena are gonna wait and make sure you're okay?”

Yuichi didn't answer, grimacing. He didn't meet Leo's eyes, hunching in on himself further. 

Leo swallowed. The thought of it had him tossing and turning most nights, new nightmares adding to an already startling collection. He didnt want to say it in case it became a reality. 

But how was he gonna get it through this fluffbrain's thick skull if he didn't voice It?

“ They'all kill you, Yuichi…” 

The words felt like glue in his mouth, sticking badly to his teeth. Like Leo was sentencing his friend to death with just that statement. 

“They won't! I'm… I'm not weak, Leo!” Yuichi fired back, letting out a sigh and letting his hands dall to his sides, fists clenching. 

He stood up a little straighter, eyes meeting Leo's for the first time since he'd gotten here. 

“ I have to do this. She has my sword, and I have no intention of letting her get away with keeping it for another day longer,” 

He turned to leave, Leo stumbling forward to reach out and grab his arm. It stopped him for a moment, and Leo seized the opportunity to squeeze a little tighter. 

“ Yui, come on, you're not this stupid. You know she won't give it up without a fight, “ He started. He never understood why Yuichi was always so serious about getting the sword back. Leo understood more than anyone about how it felt to lose a precious weapon, but it had never been worth his life. It had never meant making such a dogshit deal with the devil herself. 

“ Leo, let me go…” 

Yuichi pulled weakly at his arm, but Leo pulled him back a little, letting out a weak laugh. 

He was getting desperate. 

“ its just a sword, Cottontail! We can get another-”

Yuichi ripped his arm from Leo's grasp, the slider stumbling forward to catch himself at the sudden balance shift. 

Yuichi's face was shattered, tears threatening to spill and cheeks flush with anger. He bared his teeth for a second, words choked out UB angry hiss. 

“ it's not just a sword, Leo!” 

He let out a shuddery breath and quickly wiped his eyes, hand on the door handle again. 

“ you don't understand! I have to do this, I have to be the one to do this!” He opened the door, the roar of a crowd and the bright lights of the battle nexus arena suddenly flooding the dark, quiet backroom.with light and sound. 

Leo flinched at the adjustment in his tympana and grimaced, “ at least me me help you! I'm- I can help you!” 

“ NO!” Yuichi didn't even turn to look at him, “ I have to do this alone!” 

He stepped through the door, leaving it open behind him as he started through the long corridor leading out to the arena.  

Leo could only watch, heart in his throat. Whether that was because of the thudding of the arena past the door or because he as fucking terrified, he didn't know. He trued one last time, leaning and shouting through the door. 

“ YOU’RE GONNA DIE OUT THERE!” 

and in the last second before the door shut itself, he saw Yuichu turn with such a fearful look and lock eyes with him. 

He was scared. And Leo couldn't help him in the slightest. 

[unwelcome-tagalong]

After his time with the Inquisition, Thom Rainier was handed over to the Wardens. He’d been fairly sure he’d already filled his quota for world-ending disasters by then, but then came the Maker, laughing at his expense once again: Weisshaupt. It had been wiped off the face of the map.

He’s been on patrol ever since, part of a constant rotation of senior Wardens (or at least those with sufficient combat experience) scouting darkspawn movements and searching for any stragglers still making their way here after the disaster, but luckily his current shift is up. Time to head back to what remains of Grey Warden Headquarters in Lavendel to rest and resupply.

Thom’s stopped to ask Flynn about restocking potions when he spots a man—hard to say how old, really, especially with all that hair in his face—crouched low, on one knee, speaking with one of the injured from the battle at Weisshaupt. His cloak is threadbare and hangs too loosely from his rake-thin frame, this leathers worn and muddy, and he’s wearing a Warden scout helm with a wide brim, though Thom can tell at a glance he’s no Warden.

Nevertheless, there’s something undeniably familiar about him, Thom decides. He casually paces around the edges of the “Infirmary” (actually little more than a handful of leaky tents and a few dozen bedrolls lying in the mud), trying to get a better angle on the man’s face without attracting too much attention. He can see long, wispy blonde hair falling in waves to the man’s shoulders, a beard—a bit patchy with that light colored hair of his, but not bad, all things considered—and strange, pale eyes, flashing almost silver in the light of the lamp at his feet.

The moment the man’s eyes are in view, they flick upward, apparently having felt the weight of Thom’s gaze. Thom glances away in a hurry, but the man is already standing, walking towards him. Thom shuffles awkwardly, unsure of the other man’s intentions. He stops only a pace or two away. He’s still for a moment, as if waiting for Thom to notice him (something he is stubbornly pretending he hasn’t done), then, when Thom doesn’t react, his thin, dry lips part.

“Thom Rainier.”

Thom glances up in shock, but the man just smiles and softly says, “I knew you could see me.”

He knows that voice. He knows he knows it. But how? “I… know you from somewhere,” he mutters. “Do I?”

“I did it.”

“Congratulations…? Did what?”

“I grew a beard.”

Thom feels his forehead crinkle as his confusion deepens. Grew a beard…? Well then, without it, he’d look like…

“Cole?” Thom realizes with a gasp. The strange man’s answering smile confirms it. Thom laughs, a warm sound from deep in his belly, and squashes the smaller man against his breastplate in a firm hug. He releases him a moment later, but not entirely. Thom holds him at arms length a moment, examining him, then lets go his arms. Before Cole can step back, his fingers dart up and tug at one side of Cole’s beard, a gesture met with a startled “ouch!”

“Maker’s balls,” Thom chuckles. “So you did.”

[averycutesalamander]

merry crimes from me and boothill 💝 i hope everyone has a fantastic day !! 💕

[junebugdunes]

candy colored 🍭

[waterfallofspace]

cho//zo....? 🤭

I'm gonna assume this means C/hoso...? but if it doesn't, I'm so sorry!~ this bingo is for 'c/hoso', and if 'cho/zo' is a different character, I don't think I'm familiar <3 (all meant as genuine, not teasing <3 I genuinely want to make sure I'm answering the right character~)

(last bingo in this set so hopefully the spam will go down a little <33)

Bingo sheets under the cut!~ + rambling as always

Choso my beloved aghagh <3 i think as part curse who isn't used to this world, he is just- so allergic to most things. And also just the most sensitive, I put 'weird allergy', it doesn't exactly fit, but I hc so hard that if you touch/stroke/anything on his facial markings, the one over his nose, it gets him so desperately sneezy~ little kitten snz too, that he stifles instinctually, no one taught him he just does it~

I think he gets sick a lot, again, not used to the world, and he does not know/care to take care of himself well enough to prevent it, and he doesn't want to get anyone else sick (especially his 'family') but he also doesn't want to be alone <3

[boundbysand]

i can scarce get by

life series (ambiguous, written with secret life in mind) scar character introspection drabble. 731 words. warnings are a bit difficult to word for this- i'd say cw for self loathing/hatred and manipulation.

Scar has never been sure of who he is, but he's more than sure of what he can do. Whether that's a good thing or not is up in the air.

-

Scar's smiles do not meet his eyes.

They rarely do, at least. At this point he's almost never sure if they're real or not in the moment. He realizes, afterward, how much energy it had been taking to paste them on. How much he just wants to sleep now. Sleep doesn't seem to be enough, never will be, but he thinks it's the most he'll get. Anything more is unreasonable to wish for.

He wishes, time and time again, that his cheerfulness could be real. That it didn't feel performative most of the time.

Then he smiles at people again, sharp and with too many teeth, fake fake fake, and doesn't think they deserve his real smile. If they believe him, if they're this easy to trick, then he'd rather keep any genuine joy to himself.

It makes him sick.

Whether what makes him feel ill is other people being so stupid as to so easily believe him or his willingness, his ease in manipulating them, he's not sure. He thinks it might be both. Wonders if it's allowed to be both.

It comes as easy as breathing to him. Weaving a story so convoluted one simply gives up and relents, their head spinning too much to make any sense of the mess of words Scar offered. Sprinkling in little lies to reassure someone. Convincing someone wholeheartedly that what he's doing is right, is good, when he's not sure himself.

He does it to survive, he knows. Everyone manipulates in a death game. Not all of them manipulate outside of them, too, but- well. Not all of them had to do it to survive beforehand either.

He avoids the topic of his days before, both with others and with himself. It's not important, no matter how much it weighs on his shoulders and affects everything he does, his actions, his thoughts, his being as a whole.

If he tells himself it isn't important, it isn't.

He is the way he is now and there's no going back. All he can do now is survive.

So he does. He lies, he fakes cheer, he fakes his personality, he manipulates.

The shame and guilt eat him alive inside, a monster all of his own creation existing low and deep in the pit of his intenstines, devouring him minute by minute, consuming his entire being until Scar isn't sure he's Scar anymore. He is the beast, ugly and horrifying and evil, and he is Scar. They might be the two most opposite creatures alive. They might be the same creature entirely.

It's unclear whether or not the monster was always there, or if Scar created it himself, or if the world's cruel hands placed it, piece by burning piece, inside of Scar from the moment he was born. He knows the answer. He will remain adamant that he did it to himself regardless.

Scar knows he is not to blame. Scar knows he is every bit as ugly and appalling as he thinks he is, and it is his fault.

Scar is contradiction, wrapped up in a fake smile and a crumbling psyche.

He is friendly, self-sacrificing, and joyous.

He is hate-filled and mean, selfish, and miserable.

He puts on a mask, a face others would much prefer to see than the Scar only he knows, at the detriment of himself because he knows he won't be accepted any other way.

It works, too. It works so goddamn well it's sickening.

People like him. People trust him.

It makes him feel powerful, appeased and admired, on top of the world. He thinks it might be all he needs, to feel this way.

It makes him feel deplorable, queasy and ashamed, like the scum of the earth. He wants to claw every inch of skin off of his face with his own bare hands until all that remains is the real him.

Ugly and bloody and dripping red. Angry and envious and selfish.

He smiles, he holds the mask tighter. A private dance he plays with himself every moment of every day, himself and nothing like himself all at the same time.

He wonders if anyone will ever realize the difference. One day, maybe, someone will notice how dull his eyes look when he smiles.

[little-piece-of-tamlin]

the title of this word doc is "i will write kaebedo even if it kills me". this is a win. enjoy 942 words of my stubbornness and kaeya being a lab rat and catching feelings

~~~

“Can you create them in a specific size?”

“Depends. How complicated do you want it?”

“Just give me a cube. Two inch by two inch by two inch.”

Kaeya focuses on his vision, and cold travels up his veins as a two cubic inch icecube forms in his hand. It’s not a rapid summon, but it doesn’t have to be. It takes maybe five seconds.

He knows Albedo times it. Knows he writes down if its an even formation, or if it starts quick and slows down. He knows he will take the cube and measure it to see if it’s really two inches, to see how smooth it is, to see if the angles are right.

Cool, dry fingers brush against his palm as Albedo picks the cube up, holds it to a tape measure, and then one of those angular rulers, all the while scratching away in his notebook. Kaeya keeps the icicle from melting in his touch.

“Okay. Can you make me a sphere?”

“Of course.  Any requests on size?”

“Two inch diameter.”

“Coming right up.”

What Albedo asks of him is simple. To use his vision, to be precise, to be controlled. Small things, easy things. He tells him to keep the ice from melting as he places it in a flask above a burner. He tells him to shape it after it’s been summoned. He makes Kaeya use techniques he’s used for years, techniques that are like muscle memory to him.

What Albedo asks of him is so, so very difficult. He dissects Kaeya’s power with painless precision. There is a voice in Kaeya’s head, the one that has always sounded the most like himself, that is warning him of all the ways he is letting his walls down. Albedo learns the melting point of his ice, the force needed for it to shatter, its shapes and how quickly he summons it, and Kaeya imagines him thrusting his sword though his wall of ice with just the right amount of force and at just the right angle, sheating his blade in his heart. Night after night, he sits in the alchemist’s laboratory, creating ice until his fingers go red and start aching.

His chest feels blood-warm as Albedo stops and brings out a little flat pouch made of thin leather, and he places it in his hands and bends his fingers over it and tells him, press here. And there is something in it that feels like a coin, a thin circle of bent metal and as Kaeya presses onto it the bend snaps to the other side, and suddenly the pouch is warm.

“It’s a sodium acetate solution. Salt and vinegar.” Albedo keeps his fingers folded over his. “It’s so saturated that after it cools down, the smallest amount of energy will start the crystallizatin process. As it turns from liquid to solid form, it releases heat, serving as an effective and reusable warming pouch. I’ve been thinking about giving some to the adventurers at Dragonspine, but it’s not as good as warming bottles.

His voice is even, but the quick rhythm of his words betray his enthusiasm. Kaeya’s chest is warm like a bed filled by two people, and he finds himself smiling at the man.

“Seems like even geniuses run out of big ideas once in a while. Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.”

Albedo blinks up at him. “Just because a discovery isn’t universally useful doesn’t mean it is a lesser discovery. The principal of science is that no knowledge is wasted. Every experiment that might seem useless at first could be the final piece of a grand puzzle.” He steps away, but Kaeya catches his fingers in his before he could go far.

There is a question in the subtle arch of Albedo’s eyebrow, but Kaeya finds no words to answer it with. He asks his own question instead. “Which ones do you like more? The big discoveries or the small ones?”

The man ducks his head, gaze growing unfocused as he considers it. Kaeya wants to reach out and move those messy blonde bangs away from Albedo’s eyes, but that would mean letting go of his hand. He thinks about getting him some hairpins, but then remembers the dozen Albedo keeps in a drawer and never uses.

The alchemist turns their hands over. Now Kaeya’s is covering his. “Neither, I suppose. I like it best when a lot of small results end up making a bigger picture.  It’s... satisfying, to be able to piece it together.”

It’s a Thursday night, a date that’s been cemented into their schedules lately alongside the breakfast on Monday, the afternoon coffe on Wednesdays, and every second day of Albedo’s return from his mountain laboratory when they take Klee out on a hike. Kaeya will spend the evening on Friday at Angel’s Share, getting patrons drunk and making them spill their secrets, but he won’t stay too long so that he can pick up a fresh blackberry tart in the morning on Saturday to bring Albedo for their next experiment appointment.

He’s... not had this varied of a schedule for years. He is busier than ever, but finds that he doesn’t really mind.

“I suppose it is.” He looks up at Albedo, taking the opportunity while he has it, before they both end up standing and Albedo will reach up to his shoulder again. Those teal eyes find his, soft in a way so uncharacteristic of him, so unlike his regular cool detachment.

His chest is warm like his hand clasped in Albedo's. “So, my dear alchemist, what do you need me to do next?”

[xawkward-ariesx]

Because it hurts

“They’re people?” “They were, until they had all their humanity taken away… All emotions removed.” “Why no emotions?” “Because it hurts.”

She thinks about that sometimes over the years. After everything. After the walls have sealed them universes apart. After she sees the Doctor one last time but only to say goodbye, to tell her that this is the end, that she can never come back. After everyone moves on and carves a space for themselves in this new world that had left a gap just for them.

She thinks about the Doctor stood before a cyberman’s head as he told her, “An old friend of mine. Well, enemy.” She thinks about the way he couldn’t distinguish between the two for a moment. She thinks about the way he’d spilt about old monsters and the world he’d burned to destroy them. She thinks about Sarah-Jane, an old friend he’d never been able to speak of. 

She thinks she understands some of that now. She wonders if he keeps silent about her the way he did Sarah-Jane. Thinks she’d understand that too. She thinks about Sarah-Jane telling her the Doctor had been called home by the Timelords, how she’d never seen him again. She thinks about the way the Doctor never talks about them; talks about the beautiful planet, the trees, the grass and the two suns it used to orbit.

She thinks about the Doctor screaming at the Nestene, trying to bargain with it even after it’s shown itself to be hostile. She thinks about the Doctor and how his pity for the Gelth had made him blind to their intents. She thinks about the way he wears his scars and if she’s one of them now, or if he keeps her hidden away with his memories of people. She wonders if he still lets his pain and his anger fuel his need to save another planet, another people. She wonders if it still burns a hole through his hand the way there’s a burning in the back of her mind.

She thinks she understands him in a way she never could before as she fights to prove him wrong. Words and numbers falling from her lips in a way that reminds her of Jack, remind her of him. Things come to her easier these days, things she’d never understood before when they’d gotten lost in techno babble back before. Before she’d gotten stuck. Before Jack had stayed behind to fix the Earth. Before they’d left him alone, despite their best intentions.

Things slot into place for her now in a way that she doesn’t understand how but comes from the golden, burning place in the back of her mind that she knows shouldn’t exist. Should be locked behind fortified doors. Shouldn’t still be glittering, but hollow and cold. Shouldn’t leak secrets of the universe into her ears. Should leave her clueless and frustrated, grasping at dead ends in a way that’s expected of a girl off a council estate that never finished her A levels. A girl that had followed a stranger to the stars and picked up a few more along the way because she hadn’t understood then; but she’d seen the same lonely shadow in him that she’d felt in herself.

But she understands things now that she shouldn’t. She understands dimensional travel. Understands the cracks in the walls and the scars in the void that never completely heal if you press just right. Understands the physics and theory better than anyone of her time period should, let alone her. Understands why monsters are easier to face than the ones you’ve lost. Understands why there had been locked doors on the TARDIS in the same way she can’t bring herself to decorate the blank room she’s found herself occupying. 

And she wonders if the fire ever burns out for the Doctor in the way the universe feels a little too heavy for her sometimes. She wonders if he sees her in the way she hears his words in her mouth. And the shadows she’d seen him seem heavier in her own eyes these days. She thinks about her mum’s words on that fateful day.

“You even look like him.” “How do you mean? I suppose I do, yeah.” “You've changed so much.” “For the better.”

She thinks about how it had filled her with pride at the time. She thinks about how she’d thought she was fitting into this new world that he’d shown her. How she’d become more than just another nineteen-year-old girl from the Estates. She thinks about how she doesn’t bother to fit into this world. How she doesn’t try to force this world to make space for her where there is none. She thinks about how that sentiment has become even more true in his absence. She does look like him. From the way she carries herself to the way she carries her scars and her secrets, lets them make her someone else.

She thinks about the worlds she’s seen dying as the stars blink out of existence across reality as she fights her way back to him. She thinks about the way she’s let every single one of them harden her when she couldn’t save everyone. She thinks about the nonchalant way the Doctor had spoken of the empty Earth before the sun had swallowed it whole. She thinks she understands how he’d focused on the survival of the species of the planet living amongst the stars instead of fixating on the planet he couldn’t save. She thinks about the lone survivor of a planet with its twin suns and the little blue box that remains its planet’s only reminders of its existence after the universe moved on.

She thinks about all the people they hadn’t been able to save. About how every single one of them had burned deep inside of her, fueling a resolution to do better next time. She thinks about how the first few fires had burned her before she learned how to put up the appropriate armour up. She thinks about the Doctor and his own armour. She wonders what taught him to put walls up between himself and the fires.

But mostly she thinks about the ways the years slip by her unnoticed, despite her mortality and the way she feels as though she’s never getting any closer to what feels just out of reach. And she wonders if it’s the same for him. She wonders if his immortality weighs on him the way her humanity weighs on her. She thinks she understands now the adamant way he’d spoken of humanity and how it hurts, the way there’d been no room for argument. The conviction in his words as a man burned too many times.

[samuhelll]

@rottine asked: The celebration began in its cozy and quaint way. A party the weekend prior, so as not to coincide with the work week — this is what Margot tells him. Those few they’re so lucky to call family passing through for plates of hot food and small gifts and a homemade tiramisu in lieu of cake. These, of course, are all things Sam expected. These and the seemingly-million candles Casey insisted on adorning the dessert with for kicks, as he does every year. This year, the quiet home dinner was only the beginning. The surprise was offered to him once all of the guests filed back home to their beds. Once the dishes were promptly abandoned for more pressing matters under the sheets. Once husband and wife lied atop each other, all stuck skin and heaving breaths. Margot kept her gift for him so conveniently tucked in the drawer of her bedside table, a blank envelope hidden in plain sight that she’d excitedly patted onto his chest. Unable to bear another second spent waiting for the reveal. Inside, Sam found four tickets. Two for the plane to Naples, Italy. Another two for the coast-bound train. “You’ve whisked me away so many times,” she’d told him with a proud smile. “My turn to return the favor. We leave tomorrow night.” Now, welcoming their fourth day in a new hemisphere, the cathedral bell of Santa Maria Assunta erupts into her midnight song. The lights of Positano are snuffed one by one, until only the stars illuminate the black sea. November fourteenth arrives gift-wrapped in the lapping Mediterranean tide and the hum of balcony jacuzzi jets. No thoughts of the work she’s left for the week, nor the phone abandoned on do not disturb. Only floods of mind-bending affection when her husband wraps an arm around her under the steaming water, looks down upon her with his pretty blue eyes. Prosecco in hand, Margot clinks her glass with Sam’s, and leans in for a soft kiss. Takes the opportunity to mumble something almost uncharacteristically cheesy, a surefire sign that all the wine is drowning her decorum into dead silence. She’s made her peace with it. “Happy birthday, mi amore.”

In Positano, as the hour winds down to eight and the cliffside houses begin to shutter their eyes to the approaching faerie darkness, Sam settles inside a jacuzzi, affection buzzing through him like a theremin in his chest.

He wonders vaguely about one-in-a-millions, luck of the draws. It comes to him when she clinks her wineglass to his, then again when she comes in for a kiss. Fizzling like a bubble bath, at last geysering, it fills his head with the Big Bang expansion of the universe where it follows him under Sea Island cotton sheets, silk vanilla, and her hair is still vaguely damp.

The world molded this woman from the dust of moon moths and accidentally furnished him with her presence, he thinks. One in a million. 

“Margot. Do you think you’d marry me again?” he suddenly rumbles.

He thinks she snorts when he pulls her hair aside, kissing the junction of her shoulders. “Sam. What?”

“Seriously,” he says. “What do you think? Got a fifty-fifty shot?”

She flips around under the covers, deadpan-amused. “‘Again.’”

“Yeah.” He laughs like dry bark and the lines by his eyes fold. “I just thought— Maybe we keep renewing it, you know,” he says. “Make it a good luck thing.”

Something crosses Margot’s face, then. It makes something in his stomach churn, then stop, then spin in that order, and under the translucent cotton membrane of these hotel sheets, she looks phantasmic, too ethereal for this sad and mortal realm.

She must have read him like an open book.

“I don’t know. Just... thinking thoughts.”

She tents the covers up with a hand and steals a good, long look, their breaths circulating underneath, the sheet a pulsing cotton organ. When she kisses, it’s with a certainty that liquefies him.

“You’ll always have me. And I’ll always have you,” she says. “That’s what marriage is. A promise.”

[evverest]

This is very silly but Clove and Gale getting lost on holiday?

You're writing always makes me feel very warm and fuzzy, so thank you for sharing it with us.

Hope you are okay xxx

thank you thank you <3 you are so very sweet. i'll be okay. one a positive note, one of the things really making my mental health tank is a broken rib(s?), and today i tried some lidocaine patches and they are helping so !! forward progress.

i take your silly premise and raise you an even sillier 2.5k words about a very stoned clove and gale being lost on a beach. it definitely doesn't need a name, but i listened to everest by ani difranco on repeat while writing it, so i hope you enjoy everest :-)

nsfw, and as stated above... weed

***

“Okay but listen, if we have turned around twice, that means we would have seen that hotel sign that looks like a turtle three times, and I’ve definitely only seen it twice.”

“Clove, if you can’t remember whether or not we’ve turned around, how on earth would you possibly remember how many times we passed a goddamn turtle sign?”

“The turtle sign is significant.” 

“And the direction we’re heading isn’t?”

“Hey, fuck you! You don’t remember either.” 

“I cannot believe we got lost on a walk with only two possible directions to walk in.” 

“And it is exactly fifty percent your fault,” Clove says, mocking his intonation.

“The weed was your idea.” 

The weed was her idea, but the walk on the beach was Gale’s. Nowhere in their combined imaginations did they see themselves forgetting whether or not they’d turned around yet. Their phones are back in the room, because who the fuck gets lost on a one directional walk, and it’s dark out, and the beach is already nearly empty. They have a solid fifty percent shot of stumbling upon the hotel, or walking for two hours before they realize their mistake.

They’re fucked, basically. 

Clove kicks sand at him, stumbling a little bit with the effort. “What, you don’t like being stoned on a beach with me?”

Gale opens his mouth to reply, but only a yelp comes out as his right foot falls into a fucking death trap hole some kid dug on the beach and left there for some idiot like Gale to step in.

Clove catches him by the arm as he falls forward. “Fuck, you okay?” she asks, but she’s already laughing.

“Yes, I am. Thank you for your concern,” Gale says scathingly, trying his best to recover with some dignity.

Clove hangs onto his arm, still giggling, diminishing his dignity by association. 

“Imagine if you’d twisted your ankle.” 

Gale begins to scoff, but stops short. “Oh,” he says instead, suddenly mischievous. “Now there’s an idea to make me enjoy being stoned and lost on a beach with you more.”

“What? Getting injured?”

“No. Being carried.” 

Clove immediately shakes her head, but it’s too late; Gale has already stopped walking, heels digging into the sand as she tugs on his arm. 

“Gale.”

“I’m clearly too tired to walk. I nearly twisted my ankle.”

“No,” Clove says firmly. The shit eating grin is going to give her an aneurysm.

Gale just sidles closer to her, expression suddenly coy, playing a new game now. Clove eyes him suspiciously. 

“Please?” he asks softly, pouting a little bit. “Just for a short way.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“As serious as a man can be while high and lost on a beach.”

“I’ll throw you in the fucking ocean, dude.”

Gale inhales sharply, eyes lighting up, even in the dark. “Wait! Do you remember which side of us the ocean was on when we left?” 

“Not a clue.”

“Damn. Me neither. Well, that makes my need for a break from walking all the more urgent, then.” 

Clove just glares at him, so Gale does what he always does when she’s trying to pretend to be mad at him, and he kisses her, cradling the side of her face with one hand, sweet and slow and dreamy, and it takes all of two seconds for Clove to entirely lose the plot of pretending to be angry. She deepens the kiss, tugging him into her, winding an arm securely around his waist.

Gale makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and Clove is reminded, once again, how fucking horny vacation apparently makes them both.

This is their first together, and Clove would feel ashamed of how long they’ve spent cooped up in the hotel room, but it’s actually been so much fun that she can’t be bothered.

“Fuck, I want to be back at the hotel,” Clove breathes. 

“I have an excellent idea for how–”

Clove cuts him off with a growl at the same time that she scoops him up, one arm under his legs and the other supporting his back. Gale clings to her, nuzzles into her neck, happy as a clam and so unbearably smug that it’s rolling off him in waves.

“We look like idiots,” Clove mutters as she starts walking again.

“We are idiots. Need I remind you, we are lost on a–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clove says impatiently. “Got that part.” 

Gale presses a few velvety soft kisses to her jaw. Clove adjusts him in her arms with a little bit too much enthusiasm, mostly just to jostle him, and he chuckles. 

“Am I not allowed to kiss you?”

“We might be walking all fucking night, and I am literally carrying you. I draw the line at teasing.” 

Gale hums quietly, then falls uncharacteristically silent, and when Clove peeks down at his face, he’s staring out at the ocean, both solemnity and wonder on his brow.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispers.

Gale lowers his head onto her shoulder, sighing quietly. “I was once on a beach at night, many years ago, watching the moon reflecting off the ocean, just like it is now. Different ocean, different time, different… company. It looks exactly the same though, despite nothing else about the experiences being comparable. It’s very strange. An odd sense of déjà vu, perhaps.”

“Did you get lost on that beach, too?”

“No, and I’m glad for that. I certainly would not have been as cheerful about it. It would have been an ordeal. I used to struggle to enjoy vacations at all, because everything was an ordeal. Now, with you, it’s… easy.” 

“Easy because I’m carrying you?” Clove teases.

Gale kisses her neck, despite her prior objections. “Easy because if anyone can make a six hour late night walk on the beach enjoyable, you can.”

Clove stops walking suddenly, hoists Gale up so he meets her at eye level.

“I’ve never been on many vacations, but I…” she trails off, eyes flickering shamelessly to his lips. “I like this one. Even now.”

Gale kisses her, and his entire body comes alive at once. Legs squirming, one hand scrabbling across her shoulders and the other gripping the base of her skull hard enough that he can pull himself even further up, and Clove is far too stoned for Gale to be climbing her on a beach. 

Clove struggles to keep a firm hold on him, and more or less crushes him against her in the attempt. Gale doesn’t mind, just whines softly, keeps right on climbing.

Eventually, Clove has to set him down, holding his head a few inches from hers with both of her hands, panting. “Gale. We’ve gotta walk.” 

Gale just nods. Swallows. “Alright.” 

They keep walking, faster than before, stumbling a little bit in the sand, hand in hand now. Clove’s head is fucking spinning. For how long they’ve been together, and the fact that they’ve already fucked once today, it’s almost unreasonable they should be this consumed by desire, but really, it makes sense. 

She is very stoned, and so is Gale. The moon isn’t quite full but it really is reflecting off the water in a dazzling way Clove thought only happened in movies, and it’s warm but there’s a perfect little cool breeze, and there is quite possibly no better sound than waves crashing on the shore, and Gale looks insanely good, as he always does, and he was just cradled in her arms and so perfectly happy there, and it all feels like a fucking movie, and it’s making her a little bit insane. Why did they have to get fucking lost?

Hardly ten minutes of walking later, Clove spots something that sparks a wicked idea to flame in her head 

A pier. Long, empty, with benches all along it, and more specifically to Clove’s interest, a lone bench at the very end of it, hard to make out under a broken lamp, facing out towards the sea. She glances quickly at Gale, but he doesn’t seem to have even noticed the pier yet. 

She keeps her mouth shut, until they’re only maybe ten feet away from the steps leading up to the pier, and then she turns and, with no warning at all, scoops Gale up into her arms again.

He yelps as his legs are swept out from beneath him, but clings to her instinctively, and settles quite happily back into her arms.

The way he trusts her also makes her a little insane, she decides. 

“What are you up to?” he asks once he realizes no explanation is forthcoming.

Clove shrugs as she climbs the short flight of stairs up to the pier heavily, panting a little. “Taking a detour.” 

Gale clings much tighter to her as she strides out onto the pier, and she can understand why. It’s a bit spooky, actually. 

The ocean is much louder from right on top of it. The waves crashing up against the supporting pillars of the pier are almost startling in their inconsistent volume, and the water closest to them, shaded from the moonlight by the pier, is black. 

Clove dips to give Gale’s head a comforting kiss where it’s tucked into her shoulder. “Vacation is for adventures, yes? I found us one. A private one. Just you, me, and the ocean.” 

“And the moon,” Gale says, a little breathless.

“Yeah, and the moon.” 

“What are we going to do out here?”

“Sit on a bench,” Clove says in a low voice. 

Gale replies by kissing his slow way up her neck, up the underside of her jaw, and Clove grinds her teeth together. 

Clove collapses on the bench, Gale still cradled in her lap, and pulls him into a fierce kiss with her shaking arms. 

The lamp closest to them is broken, and despite the moonlight the night is an inky black around them, and the ocean is so fucking loud out here, surrounding them, ready to soak up any noise they might make, and Clove is as grateful for this spot as she is intimidated by it. 

She can feel Gale’s intimidation, too. The tension in his body, the way he’s staying pressed close to her like he’s worried he might fall in the water otherwise, but he needs to ask no more questions about what they’re doing out here. He scoots just out of her lap enough that he can undo her denim shorts. 

Clove fumbles with his pants too for a moment, but Gale’s hand leaves her shorts briefly to stop her. “No, I’m waiting for the hotel,” he mutters. “This is just for you, my impatient lover. Since you dragged us all the way out here.” 

“Dragged? I carried you,” Clove retorts, the bite of it lessened slightly by an involuntary whimper as she grinds her hips up into his hand. His fingers are taking an agonizing amount of time getting where they’re going. “Did a fucking good job at it, too. Didn’t drop you once.”

Gale dips a lone finger into her folds, slow and exploratory, still teasing her. “Yes, I know. It was… very hot,” he says darkly, nipping at her bottom lip. “I’m only waiting for the hotel because I want to fuck you, Clove, and please do believe me that even if we get back at eight in the morning after walking for ten hours, I will be fucking you.” 

Clove’s hips jerk against his hand, and her moan is swallowed up by the waves first, and then Gale claims it instead. Gale repositions slightly so his hand is at a better angle to slide further down her shorts, and then he sinks two fingers into her and shivers against her at the same time. Clove fists a hand in his shirt as she writhes. 

“Fuck yes, Gale, yes,” she groans, and he mutters something in response, but it’s swallowed up in the crash of a wave underneath them.

He can’t get all that deep with her shorts constraining his hand, but he can still curl his fingers in a way that makes Clove see stars, and she’s stoned, and the pier is creaking beneath them and nothing she ever imagined vacation could ever be holds a fucking candle to this. 

Gale leaves her mouth to trail wet kisses down her throat as he grinds his palm against her clit in slow circles, and Clove opens her eyes again, watches the moonlit water stretching out to the horizon as her orgasm barrels towards her, tries to memorize this moment, sketch it in her mind. 

Before she comes, though, she looks down, taking in only Gale. His half bun bobbing in the wind under her chin as he sucks a bruise to the dip above her collarbone, his body still curled into her side, one leg still slung over one of hers, one arm jammed down her shorts and the other still wrapped around her neck, clinging to her, here with her, despite the absurdity of it. 

Always down for a bit of recklessness, her Gale is. 

“Gonna make me come, Gale, oh my god, fuck,” Clove says at the last second, bearing down on his hand so hard it’s a wonder he can still move his fingers, and Gale’s head snaps up to watch her face as she tips over the edge, and then he licks into her mouth while she’s barely present in her own body, and Clove is glad the ocean is there to cover up whatever obscene noise she makes.

Gale settles his head back on her shoulder as she comes down, but otherwise doesn’t move. Clove squeezes him feebly. 

“See? Getting lost ain’t so bad,” she mumbles. 

Gale pulls his hand out of her shorts, and Clove hears him lick them clean, although she unfortunately can’t see it with his head all tucked away under her chin like it is.

“No, it’s not. I’ll still be glad when we un-lose ourselves, though.”

“We better get walking, then.” 

“You’ll have to carry me off this pier, I’m afraid. It makes me a little dizzy.”

Clove laughs, loud and brash, as she does up her pants. “Not a fucking chance.”

Gale settles for holding her hand. Clove is, admittedly, a little relieved when they’re back in the sand. She is eager to get back to their room as well, and she knows Gale must be… pent up, but despite it all, they’re walking slower now. 

The magic of the night, the ocean, the moon, the high, the vacation-specific feeling of knowing tomorrow holds only what you want it to hold, that bedtime can be whenever you happen to feel tired, that leisure is the point, it all seems to have enchanted them both. 

There is no reason for their feet to move faster, for them to bicker over landmarks, for their eyes to frantically search the horizon. 

They’re just taking a long walk, hand in hand, and they’ll get there when they get there.

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

doodle dump from earlier-learning to draw glitchtrap for my truman show au…

[idolsummons]

It wasn't a holiday she had a particular interest in. It was thanks to her parents that she had to wake up and skip her typical morning routine to instead attend a church service and spend the day socialising - not that the latter is particularly irksome, given her chosen career, save for the one person who would always have just figured out who Hana was and felt the need to approach her about oh, my daughter loves your music so much or wow, we're the same age and you're doing so well for yourself! I've always been a fan! It came with the role, but sometimes she wished for a single day in peace. Hana did not arrive home until the sun had shied away and the moon took its place in the sky. Like someone scrubbing themselves clean after a particularly bad encounter that felt like a stain on their psyche, Hana hid herself away in the room that was typically locked, opened for one purpose and one purpose only: to further her studies into the field of dark magic. It was her Christmas too, after all, and didn't she deserve to do something for herself?

[fidgetspringer-art]

The story

Here's a little summary of Martin and Noah's overall history together for those interested!

They meet when Martin finds the mangled wreck of a motorcycle on the side of a road. Black lines of rubber snaking along the asphalt behind it.

Figuring this is the world’s way of making Martin pay it forward after surviving his own accident, he helps Noah to the hospital where he sticks around for a bit and they get to know each other.

When Noah is discharged he’s left stranded with a wrecked bike and nowhere to go, so Martin offers him a room at his farm while his broken wrist heals and while he fixes his bike, in exchange for a helping hand around the farm. Noah accepts and the two of them hit if off a lot better than either of them could have expected.

They spend the first several years knowing each other in what is in a lot of ways a very domestic relationship, while it's also nothing like that at all.

Martin never leaves the homestead for longer than he has to. Only to resupply or to trade produce with a few of his nearest neighbours, who are the closest thing he has to friends.

Meanwhile, Noah comes and goes a lot like a stray cat.

Sometimes he's only gone for a few days, other times he's gone for months. Martin mourns his absence every time he leaves, but suddenly he'll turn up again and it'll be like he never left at all.

Sometimes Noah sticks around long enough that Martin starts to think he might actually stay for good this time. Until he gets the itch again and vanishes like it doesn't rip Martin apart every time.

Sometimes Noah comes home with a gift and a good story. Other times he comes back with a black eye and fresh scars, or hiding bruises that Martin only catches glimpses of in passing.

So while their relationship is very good in a lot of ways, it's flawed in just as many. They're not very good at talking about it. Noah is afraid of getting tied down and Martin is dealing with a lot of internalised homophobia that doesn't let him fully enjoy what they have without a lingering sense of guilt.

They argue a lot at first. Trying to drive each other away while desperately clinging on to what they have.

They're both very imperfect and very lonely people who find a lot of comfort in each other, even if what they have isn't ideal and even if they hurt each other along the way. They love each other like nothing else, but their individual trauma doesn't let them have a truly healthy relationship for a long time.

In the end they keep up this weird sort of orbit around each other for almost 7 years before they finally realise that they need to sort their shit out. Their happy ending is that they talk it through and settle down. Noah moves in permanently, and when he gets the itch to move he either takes a day trip on his own to get his wiggles out, or they take a break from the farm and roadtrip for however long feels right to them.

[1930sdarlin]

HAI MEGS ARE U COOL WITH PPL ROLEPLAYING ON UR BLOG? :3

Hello again, Rainbow (?, may I call you that?),

Yes I'm mostly okay with role-playing on my blog. The usual rules apply to being respectful when it comes to that but! I do have a stipulation.

My personal account (which is this one) is not really much of a role-play blog- being as I'm not technically playing a character.

(My sona is who I'm playing as a lot of the time in roleplays, especially when it comes to Chenya. )

TLDR; I'm fine with a little bit of rp- just not a lot.

[whumpshots]

Whump ABC #16